CHAPTER 162: UNTOUCHED

When he looked down, the sight of her—untouched, composed, her hands moving with that relentless rhythm—sent a pulse of heat straight to his core.

Her expression didn’t shift, her strokes unwavering, but she adjusted her pace without a word, as if sensing his rising need.

Her fingers twisted slightly on the upstroke, the latex rolling against his sensitive tip, sending sparks up his spine.

The slick sounds grew louder, filling the small room, mingling with the faint musk of arousal and the spiced oil’s heady scent.

Lor’s thighs spread wider, his toes curling inside his boots as his hips began to move in time with her strokes. His breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers digging into the floorboards.

"Faster," he rasped, the word half plea, half command.

She complied instantly—not out of submission, but as if she’d already decided it was time.

Her pace quickened, the slick glide of her gloves turning urgent, her grip tightening just enough to make his cock twitch with every pull.

The twist at the top became sharper, her fingers squeezing the tip in a way that made his vision blur.

Her ponytail bounced with each motion, her breasts shifting under the tunic, the faint jiggle a hypnotic counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of her hands.

The air grew thick, heavy with the mingled scents of oil, sweat, and desire.

Lor’s stomach tightened, his body teetering on the edge.

"I’m—fuck—I’m close," he gasped, his voice raw, hips jerking upward into her grip.

If she heard, she gave no sign.

Her rhythm didn’t falter, her gloves gleaming as they slid over him, her face as composed as if she were tallying coins in the market.

That unshakable calm, paired with the merciless precision of her hands, shattered him.

His climax hit like a wave, his cock pulsing hard in her grip as thick ropes spilled over the slick latex, glistening on the black surface.

Lor groaned, the sound deep and guttural, echoing in the quiet cottage as his hips bucked with each pulse.

She kept stroking, milking every shudder, every drop, until the sensitivity was a white-hot edge that made him hiss.

Only then did she release him, her gloves still shimmering with oil and his release, her fingers flexing once as if testing their work.

Her expression remained untouched, cold as the morning frost, her icy blue eyes meeting his without a flicker of warmth.

Lor slumped back, chest heaving, the aftershocks still tingling through his limbs.

The coin on the floor glinted faintly, a silent witness to the ritual’s strange, electric conclusion.

Ameth rose smoothly, peeling off the gloves with a practiced snap, and turned away, leaving him to catch his breath in the heavy, spice-scented air.

.

.

Ameth returned moments after her brief absence, her hands now bare, the sharp snap of discarded latex gloves fading into the back room’s shadows.

Lor, still sprawled on the floor, reached for the small bundle of tissues in his pocket, wiping himself down with a lazy, sated grin.

The oil’s scent clung to his skin, a heady mix of cinnamon and pepper braided with his own release.

Her icy blue eyes flicked to the tissues, catching the sticky remnants before her fingers moved in a swift, practiced gesture.

A whisper of magic curled through the air, sharp and cold, frosting the mess in Lor’s palm and on the wooden floor with a crystalline sheen.

Before he could speak, she snapped her fingers, and the frost shattered into nothingness, leaving the tissue pristine, as if the act had never happened.

A chill skittered down Lor’s spine, raising the hairs at his nape.

Once he realized that his cock was still intact, he flashed a grin, teeth glinting in the dim light. "Efficient."

He tugged his trousers back up, the belt clicking into place with a satisfied hum.

That handjob—those slick, black gloves, her unyielding composure, the way she’d worked him with surgical precision—had been one of the best he’d ever had.

The absence of her arousal, the cold detachment in her touch, had only stoked his fire hotter, turning the act into something dangerously perfect.

A cherry atop the strange, electric ritual they’d woven.

Ameth didn’t ask if he was pleased.

Didn’t seem to care.

"Let’s get started," she said, her voice as flat as the market’s cobblestones. "Tell me."

Lor stood, brushing his hands on his thighs, the coin from their earlier ritual still glinting faintly on the floor.

"First, take me to your vegetable cart."

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion, but she didn’t argue.

With a curt gesture toward the side door, she led him out of the cottage, her ponytail swaying with each step, the faint bounce of her breasts beneath her tunic catching the edge of his vision.

The narrow path between the house and a weathered shed was cloaked in shadow, a sagging overhang casting silver-gray light over the boards.

The air here was cooler, thick with the scent of damp earth and greenery.

Inside the shed, the atmosphere was heavy, saturated with the loamy tang of vegetables and the faint mustiness of decay.

Ameth’s cart sat under a single shaft of dim light filtering through a high window, its stock appearing bountiful at a glance.

But Lor’s keen eye caught the telltale signs—brown patches creeping across lettuce, a dull sheen on squash, the faint sour edge beneath the earthy scent.

"Rot," he murmured, his voice low, almost swallowed by the shed’s stillness.

Ameth said nothing, her silence louder than any retort.

He stepped closer, his hand hovering over the cart’s edge, fingers brushing the air as if testing an invisible current.

Then he closed his eyes, drawing a slow, deep breath.

His body stilled, the casual ease falling away like a shed cloak.

When his eyes opened, they glowed with that same molten silver, brighter now, casting faint shadows across the cart’s surface.

His voice, when it came, was not his own—low, resonant, carrying an ancient weight that seemed to press against the shed’s wooden walls.

"Listen, child. This business bleeds because you lack the knowledge to command it. You will change this."